


The Island

by moonlighten



Series: Deva Victrix: The Dragon [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Dragons, Fantasy, Magic, Magic-Users, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Pining, Prophecy, Spells & Enchantments, Transformation, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 01:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12266286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: The Dragon is a creature born of prophecy, but the time for the fulfillment of that prophecy has long passed. Now trapped on a small island with two ageing monks, all it can do is wait for a sign that it was not created in vain.





	The Island

**Author's Note:**

> So... This story uses the setting I devised for a fanfic ([Deva Victrix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166153)), but it stands alone and will contain only original characters. The idea for the story has been rattling around in my brain for some time, and it's a prequel (of sorts) to a series I hope to write. 
> 
> Just a quick note on the setting, copied from Deva Victrix: 
> 
>    
>  _The story's setting owes a debt to both the Discworld and Dragon Age in certain aspects, and Latin names for countries and towns are used because the world is also in part inspired by the Roman Empire (though mostly because I doubted my ability to come up with decent fantasy names)._

* * *

 

"You'll have to make yourself scarce before the boat arrives," Brother Aeron says.  
  
The Dragon nods, because it is good advice even though it's unnecessary. It has waited on this shore, in this precise spot with the sun in its eyes and the barnacle-encrusted rock at its back, a hundred times before this day and it will doubtless wait a hundred times after, when all that remains of Brother Aeron are ashes and a cairn built in his memory on the hillside high above the abbey.  
  
"Mind you don't go too far, though. These old bones of mine aren't as strong as they used to be, and I’ll need your help carrying the crates back to the cart."  
  
The Dragon watches Brother Aeron's mouth as he talks, the pliant curve and stretch of his thin, chapped lips, and the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. The skin of his throat is deeply creased and as delicate as chiffon, but the Dragon does not think of how easy it would be to tear through it with sharp claws, or how dark, rich blood rushes beneath, so close to the surface.  
  
It thinks instead of the age spots which now mottle that skin, the flutter of Brother Aeron's heartbeat, pulsing weakly beneath the hinge of his jaw, and the quavering whisper of his voice, once so deep and powerful that the Dragon wouldn't have to strain to hear it over the pounding of the waves.  
  
"Of course," the Dragon says, as best it can. Its own mouth is clumsy, its lips inflexible and ill-made for speech.  
  
But Brother Aeron has known the Dragon for many years, long enough to make easy sense of its malformed words. He smiles fleetingly, and bids the Dragon retreat with a stiff flap of his gnarled hand.  
  
The Dragon crouches low behind the barnacle-encrusted rock, its wings folded tight and drawn down close against its back. The air is cool and damp, and though there is no heat in its belly, its breath plumes from its slit nostrils like smoke. Despite it having been many months since it last had cause to make fire, the pouches that line the inside of its cheeks still bear a faint taste of brimstone when it flicks the end of its forked tongue over them experimentally.  
  
Brother Aeron paces back and forth along the small pier at the landing spot as they wait, his rough, homespun robes flapping around his ankles. The Dragon knows little else but patience, and does not move a muscle, does not even blink, until the magic-sodden fog that encircles the island thins and a familiar rowboat hews through it.  
  
The rower, Evans, is geas-bound as was his father before him, and all his forebears back to the many-times-great-grandfather who was foolish enough to make an enemy of a mage. Twice a year, he is compelled to make the perilous journey from the mainland bringing much-needed supplies, with no recompense but his life.  
  
Evans ignores Brother Aeron’s greeting as he moors his boat, and thereafter unloads his cargo in silence and alone, spurning all Brother Aeron’s offers of aid even though his arms and legs shake as he hefts the largest of the crates, his face purpling as his breath grows short from his exertions.  
  
The last time the Dragon had attended to the delivery with Brother Aeron, almost a decade ago now, Evans had not struggled thus, but he too must be getting old. A half century has passed since he first came to the island, accompanying his father to learn the route from the mainland and be proudly introduced to the monks he would be forced to attend in his father’s place once he came of age.  
  
Evans has never brought a son or daughter to meet them. He is the last of his line, and once he is gone, there will be no-one left to bring food to the island. The Dragon has shared its worries that they will all starve then with nothing but the fruits of their small orchard and garden to sustain them, but Brother Aeron told it that magic or the gods would be bound to provide in Evans’ stead, and it should put those thoughts out of its mind. The Dragon has tried, as Brother Aeron is much wiser than it is and surely knows best. He is also a man of faith, though, whereas the Dragon has doubts, and so it is still uneasy.  
  
Evans makes but one sound before he departs, a single groan when he seats himself in his boat again. He winces, rubbing at his shoulder, and gives Brother Aeron a single, curt nod of farewell before he bends to his oars.  
  
Brother Aeron watches him go until the encircling fog closes once more behind the small boat, then beckons for the Dragon to join him.  
  
“You take these,” he says, gesturing towards the crates and barrels stacked on the pier. “I can manage the bags.”  
  
The Dragon is glad to oblige him. If it was not forbidden from making its presence known to the man, it would have gladly helped Evans with his unloading too, and consequently made quick work of that, as well. Though clearly a great burden to both humans, the Dragon scarcely notices the weight of their provisions, and their cart is packed in short order.  
  
Normally, Brother Aeron and Sister Anwen would each take hold of one of the cart’s two shafts and haul it back to the abbey between them, but Sister Anwen has been seized by the grippe and confined to her bed these last three days. Brother Aeron wouldn’t have invited the Dragon to join him, otherwise.  
  
Still, even desperation and dire straits have their benefits. Although Brother Aeron is not able to pull the cart alone, the Dragon can, and Brother Aeron has even unearthed an ancient harness to make its task easier.  
  
The harness mottled with mould, its leather cracked and peeling; since Evans delivered their cart twenty years ago, it’s been left to rot in one of the old outhouses. They had no need of it, because they keep only goats and chickens, which are of little use as draught animals.  
  
The Dragon has seen pictures of carts, and knows how they are used on the mainland, with a pony lashed between the shafts to draw them. Brother Aeron attaches it to their cart in the same way, buckling the harness around its chest and across its back.  
  
"There," he says, stepping back to inspect his handiwork with a shrewd eye. "That should do it. How does it feel? Not too tight, I hope."  
  
The Dragon feels very little through the twin layers of overlapping scales that cover its body; not heat, or cold, or touch.  
  
"No," it says.  
  
"Good, good. Now, why don’t you try moving, see how that goes?"  
  
The Dragon takes a few steps forward, the cart trundling after it, wheels shuddering and bouncing across the stones that litter the ground underfoot. Even though Brother Aeron doesn’t laugh to see it, the Dragon still suspects that it must look faintly ridiculous. It is creature of prophecy, a deadly weapon, now pressed into service as a beast of burden. It doubts its creators ever foresaw such a thing, even if their skills of prognostication _were_ as powerful as they were purported to be.  
  
The thought amuses the Dragon, and it bares its teeth; as close as it can manage to a smile.  
  
"Tremble," it says, hoping that it might amuse Brother Aeron too, in its turn, "for I am the Death of Empires."  
  
Its hopes are dashed, just as they always are. Brother Aeron stares at it blankly, and his lips do not so much as twitch. He has never cared for the Dragon’s attempts at humour. Not many of the monks ever have, excepting Brother Edward, and, on occasion, Sister Ffion.  
  
They are both long gone, though, and the Dragon has grown accustomed to not hearing laughter.  
  
It sighs, and walks on.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Three hundred years ago, when the Dragon first awakened to itself, the monks told it that every Seer and Soothsayer in Britannia had been visited by the same vision one night.  
  
They had dreamt of a red dragon rising from the stones of Cymru to fight a white wolf which was invading from across the sea.  
  
The Empire was small then, and distant, but it was greedy. It had already devoured all of Italia and Raetia, and was eyeing Noricum hungrily. It did not seem beyond the bounds of possibility that it would one day, in the far distant future, start snapping its jaws at Britannia’s shores.  
  
Most of those clairvoyants presumed their visions were figurative; that they were merely a warning to expect danger from the east.  
  
Others, though, interpreted them more literally. They believed that they were being shown that the only way they could hope to keep the Empire at bay was if they had in their possession a weapon more devastating than Roma’s armies. They believed needed a dragon in truth.  
  
But there were no dragons anymore, not in Britannia, nor in the world entire. When the earth cooled, and the old gods retired to their halls, magic began to dwindle. Soon enough, there wasn’t sufficient remaining to sustain the dragons’ presence in the mortal realm, and they had no choice but to retreat to the Otherworld, just a stride and an eternity away.  
  
They could not return, so those few believers faced a conundrum.  
  
The Dragon was their answer to it.

 

 


End file.
